


so prove to me (i'm not gonna die alone)

by Catheria



Category: BNA: Brand New Animal (Anime)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Chronic Pain, Eating Disorders, F/F, Found Family, Heavy Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Sharing a Bed, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, michiruna gets a slowburn, not rlly bc its. shirou but u kno u kno, shingua just. you'll see.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catheria/pseuds/Catheria
Summary: Everyone deals with their trauma in different ways. And yet none of them expect just how they end up coping.*************On hurt/comfort and found family amongst those with shared trauma and unrequited feelings.
Relationships: Hiwatashi Nazuna & Ogami Shirou, Hiwatashi Nazuna & Pinga, Hiwatashi Nazuna/Kagemori Michiru, Kagemori Michiru & Ogami Shirou, Kagemori Michiru & Pinga, Ogami Shirou/Pinga
Comments: 13
Kudos: 83





	1. don't turn away, i'm still awake

**Author's Note:**

> If you like hurt/comfort and a LOT of angst you've come to the right place.

It’s the quiet that gets to Shirou. A few hours ago everything was so deafening, and now everything is just deafeningly silent. The concert, the aftermath, his own self destruction. Now they’re just images and memories flashing relentlessly through his mind. How many times does he watch himself nearly kill Michiru, or watch Michiru get nearly killed by Alan? He doesn’t know, but it feels well over a hundred as he sits, back against the wall, in the hallway outside Rose’s office.

He couldn’t go back to Gem and Melissa’s after the night’s events. How could he? His mind races a thousand miles an hour and his pulse isn’t much better. Michiru and Nazuna are somewhere in the building too, but he knows well enough they won’t let anything bad happen to each other. Especially after seeing Nazuna throw herself at Michiru in tears after realizing she wasn’t dead.

Shirou doesn’t know what time it is, or how long it’s been since he changed into his third outfit for the day. His usual trench coat, which Michiru recovered from the lab for him, another sweater, and a pair of slacks. Despite all of it, he’s still cold and shivers in the barren hallway.

He’s pretty certain his phone is destroyed, or that Marie will show up tomorrow with an offer for it twice it’s actual value. Either way, he has no means of telling the lateness of the hour.

All he knows is that beneath him those who’ve contracted Nirvasyl are being treated, and it doesn’t give him much peace. Sure, he knows they’ll all recover, but at what cost? The blurred memories of hurting loved ones, the disorientation of waking again, the self loathing of letting go?

Maybe that last one is just Shirou, but it still pains him nonetheless. Destroyed by his own self hatred. What a feat.

His chest still aches where Alan shot through him, and hundreds of new cuts and scrapes and bruises pepper his skin. Interestingly enough, none of them have seemed to heal much. Maybe it’s because of the strain of coming back from what even Alan assumed to be death, and yet again maybe it’s just Shirou being paranoid.

He hugs his knees a little tighter to the distress of the rest of his body. He sighs, only to catch his breath at the sound of footprints echoing down the otherwise empty floor. Shirou doesn’t rise to his feet, but still lets his body tense at the potential of yet another fight.

Instead, he just sighs again.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Indeed,” Pingua answers, back hitting the wall mere inches from Shirou. The bird man crosses his arms, the moonlight weakly illuminating him against the rest of the otherwise dark, empty hall.

“Why are you here?” Shirou blurts, rubbing his neck awkwardly.

“Where else would I be?” he answers, sliding down the wall until he sits right beside Shirou.

“Committing another war crime?” Shirou remarks, though he’s tired to the point of his usual sarcasm being completely absent from the statement.

“Not until Wednesday,” he answers deadpan, even looking Shirou dead in the eye while he’s at it.

And maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the stress or just the desire for something a little less nightmarish than the past twenty-something hours, but Shirou genuinely laughs to both his and Pingua’s surprise.

“Since when do you have a sense of humor?” Pingua prods, even going as far as to nudge Shirou on the shoulder. And maybe it’s the lateness of the hour or just the want for touch other than a punch to the face, but Shirou allows it. Not without instinctively stiffening, but he allows it.

“Since when do you know anything about me?” Shirou retorts, returning his gaze to the wall on the direct opposite side of the hallway.

“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure that tonight you revealed to the greater populace of Anima City that you are, in fact, the Silver Wolf and over a thousand years old. Also, I fought you on a roof last week, so _maybe_ I picked something up from that,” Pingua continues with too much confidence for Shirou’s liking.

“Yeah, ok,” he groans, “but you didn’t know I was immortal when you dropped me from the sky. Higher than this building.”

“Well, either way your weird tanuki daughter figure saved your life, so-”

“You drug me against the walls of several different buildings, Pingua.”

“Oh, so you _do_ know my name?”

“How do you even have the energy to banter right now?”

“Ever heard of humor as a coping mechanism?”

This catches Shirou off guard. Of _course_ the war criminal has trauma. Likely more from just tonight, as well.

“Yeah. Not really my thing,” Shirou growls, shutting down again at the thought of the night’s events. He resumes hugging his knees close to his chest, even burying his face in his arms.

Pingua is silent for one minute, two. Uncharacteristically so, if Shirou can even say that from the total twelve hours they’ve spent together.

Finally, he asks, “Well, what is?”

And Shirou is taken even further aback, still refusing to leave the safety of his face buried in his arms.

And it’s silent yet again. Deafeningly so.

“Take a wild guess,” is all Shirou can manage to cough out, refusing to give Pingua so much as a glance.

“Hm… given the way you’re avoiding the question as well as basically curled on the floor in a ball without anyone nearby before I happened to stumble upon you… I’m going to say you don’t have a designated coping mechanism, but self isolation is definitely _something_ you do.”

It’s Shirou’s turn to speak in return and keep their little game of honesty going, but instead he just lets out a small groan.

He doesn’t like being read so well, _especially_ by someone who threw him off of a roof less than a week ago. But at the same time, there’s something about Pingua that lacks the usual malice that accompanies inquiries to Shirou’s behavior.

Pingua isn’t accusatory, he’s even worse. He’s _right_.

And Shirou is too tired to defend himself, too battered to tell a literal war criminal to back off from the personal questions. He hates being drowsy; hates having to deal with his defenses being toned down from exhaustion. Tiredness constantly plagues him, but usually his caffeine intake makes up for it. But now he lacks the energy to even effectively deflect from his trauma and change the topic.

Shirou flinches as his body involuntarily shivers, sending a strike of sharp pain down his back and causing him to hug his knees even tighter.

“You’re cold?” Pingua asks, yet again to Shirou’s surprise.

“Yeah. And?” Shirou tries to deflect. The last thing he wants is the war criminal who’s now psychoanalyzed him to notice yet another one of his weaker points.

“You’re a _wolf_. How are you cold?” Pingua practically laughs, before adding, “Wait, is it because you’re old?”

Shirou just groans again in response, fighting the urge to rub his hands up and down his arms to fight the permanent chill that’s begun to bother him.

“Hey,” Pingua says, suddenly breaking the previous banter yet again, “Do you want my scarf?”

It’s silent again. Not for long, though.

“Maybe,” Shirou says, allowing himself the potential comfort because if there’s one thing he can’t stand it’s the cold. And fine. Maybe he needs all the comfort he can get on a night like this one.

Shirou stiffly lifts his head from his knees, only to have Pingua immediately loop his scarf around his neck. He even ties it in a way that makes the mundane task look nearly skillful.

The closeness of him makes Shirou flush ever so slightly, and when the albatross asks if it’s any better he barely hears him.

“Uh, yeah,” he manages to stutter out, before quickly adding, “Why are you being kind to me?”

“Well, you _are_ god and all,” he begins jokingly, “ _And_ you’re the only other person to talk to around here.”

“Why did you stay to begin with,” Shirou blurts out, anxiously adjusting the scarf in a bit of irony.

“I think I’m going to stick around for a while, actually. Anima City is a lot more interesting than the utopia it advertises,” Pingua answers without missing a beat.

“Huh,” is all Shirou can manage to say, because between the cold and the tiredness his brain is barely functional.

“You’re _still_ cold, aren’t you?” Pingua sighs.

“Why are you so concerned about it?” Shirou growls, letting his face sink into Pingua’s scarf.

“Why not? There’s no reason for me _not_ to be concerned about the beastmen’s god-“

“Shut up,” Shirou cuts him off, “Really, though. Why are you still here, with _me_ of all people?” 

“Shared trauma?” Pingua half-jokes, and Shirou knows there’s some substance to the statement in the way Pingua, usually so confident, averts his gaze.

“Fine. I’m… still cold. You caught me,” Shirou mutters to his own disbelief, though for now he thinks he’ll blame it on his brain being addled from the day’s events and his exhaustion.

There’s no reply. Only Pingua closing the already small gap between them before inquiring, “May I?”

“What?” Shirou asks, only to have the albatross’s arms wrap around him and surprisingly gently pull him into his lap.

“Better?”

Shirou’s stiff at the touch at first, but it melts into it more quickly than he’d like to admit. He feels… safe. That’s the best word for it. He’s hyper aware of exactly where Pingua’s body meets his; of his arms gently cradling his body. It feels dangerous and vulnerable and Shirou hates it, but it feels _safe,_ nonetheless.

Shirou yawns and hesitantly allows himself to rest his head against Pingua’s shoulder.

“Sure,” he murmurs, lips heavy from exhaustion, cradled in Pingua’s arms. It’s strange to Shirou, foreign even. To be held. To be the one being taken care of, rather than the other way around.

And it makes him feel guilty. _He’s_ supposed to be the one protecting people, not the one so fragile as to have to be taken in the arms of someone else to fight off a chill.

Without thinking and out of habit, he buries his face in distress in Pingua’s jacket. Usually it’s his hands or his knees or the couch, but instead of being alone in his room he’s alone with _Pingua_ of all people, nonetheless being held by him. 

He feels Pingua stiffen before he asks, “You good?”

“Fine,” Shirou answers, his voice muffled by the fabric.

Pingua relaxes before shifting one arm to Shirou’s lower back and the other to gently cradle the back of his head.

“You sure about that? I mean, how often do you bury your face into the jackets of strangers?”

Shirou just groans in response and, despite his mind urging him not to, he nestles into Pingua’s jacket further. 

“Oh, so that’s considered an answer now?”

Against his better judgement, Shirou allows himself to return Pingua’s embrace. He loops his arms around his shoulders and rests his head in the crook of Pingua’s neck.

“Is this?” Shirou asks, voice hoarse from the anxiety of being so… _open_ with someone.

“I mean, not really, but-” Pingua stutters before Shirou cuts him off.

“Thank you. For… whatever this is,” Shirou mutters into his neck, voice barely audible. Shirou’s revealed all of his cards; Pingua knows more about Shirou than Gem or even Melissa can probably recall. And he’s ok with it, for now at least. He’s… needed a confidant. Michiru’s a teenager, Kuro is a bird, and Gem and Melissa don’t need any complications from his life. Pingua, as it turns out, is exactly what Shirou needs. The thought weighs heavy and awkward in his mind as his arms are wrapped around the albatross in somewhat of an embrace.

“Uh, yeah. No problem,” Pingua stumbles over his words, but he returns Shirou’s embrace without hesitation.

And Shirou allows himself to break a little bit more in Pingua’s arms, turning an awkward hug into him clinging to the albatross for dear life and burying his face in the crook of Pingua’s neck. He hates himself for losing his composure, for exposing himself in the least to _Pingua_ of all people. But he can’t pry himself away from him; because he’s freezing, and lonely, and desperate for anyone that he can allow himself to fall apart around. Maybe it’s because Pingua can take care of himself, or because Pingua has a fair share of his own mistakes under his belt, but he’s different from Michiru or Rose.

Michiru is basically Shirou’s designated child at this point, and Rose, while strong in her own right, has always felt like someone Shirou still has to take care of. Of course, Shirou feels like he’s supposed to protect _everyone_. That’s his purpose and life and death, and he’s done nothing but fail at the one task assigned to him.

Bits and pieces of the night, of all the times he’s failed to prevent Michiru from falling into harm’s way, flash before his closed eyes. He clutches Pingua’s jacket a little tighter and has to physically fight the tears threatening to spill out of his eyes, but he stays there.

And Pingua doesn’t so much as flinch. He remains where he is, how he is; holding Shirou with more care than he deserves, gently stroking his hair as he falls apart in his arms. Wordless. Stable. Constant.

Shirou clings to him as though if he loosens his grip he’ll disappear. Shirou feels heavy and drowsy, melting further and further into Pingua until he finally begins to feel sleep dragging him into oblivion. He feels Pingua stroke his hair once more before his tiredness finally catches up to him.

* * *

The first and only thing Shirou feels is his flesh burning and melting away in layers, leaving him raw and exposed and in agony. He wants to scream; to cry out for something other than nightmares plaguing his sleep. But all he can do is stand, stiff as a corpse, as his monstrous form melts away.

He knows in the pit of his stomach what he’ll see, but his eyes still snap open to reveal Michiru, bloodied and unconscious, at his feet. Nazuna holds her small, massacred body in her arms.

_She’s not breathing._

The realization causes Shirou to feel nauseated, to feel his heart drop to his feet, to feel his own claws dig into his arms.

Nazuna, Michiru’s head in her lap, brushes aside a clump of hair stained with her own blood. Tears run freely down her face, and she shakily caresses Michiru’s cheek

“You did this to her,” Nazuna growls without looking away from Michiru, “You killed her.”

Shirou falls to his knees as if he were shot, tears burning his eyes and heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

_You did this. You hurt her._

“You _killed_ her!” Nazuna snarls, head whipping over to stare Shirou in the eye. Her voice is inhuman, and her eyes glow pink and without pupils. Her ears lie flat against her skull.

Nazuna gently places Michiru’s corpse on the ground before violently turning to Shirou. She rises to her feet, clenching her fists and walking directly to where he kneels.

“I loved her! I loved her and you _killed_ her!” she yells, voice reverberating before grabbing Shirou by the arms to drag him to his feet. Where her hands meet his skin feels like acid.

Shirou can’t bring himself to say anything, to _do_ anything, except cry in wake of the teenager who stole his identity and led a cult and led to the near destruction of his people but he can’t bring himself to hate. Who loved Michiru but thanks to the tragedy of circumstances was driven apart from her. Who watched him nearly kill Michiru as a direct result of his own lack of self control.

He wants to say _I’m sorry_ , but his voice won’t work. Even then, it doesn’t mean the same thing as _I cannot live with myself._ Instead, tears burn his skin and sobs catch in his throat. It’s pathetic, really. Even in his dreams he can’t do anything other than dissolve into self loathing in light of his actions.

Nazuna throws him to the ground, and it’s not just his mind torturing him without physical damage. Blood mats his fur where Nazuna grabbed him. He lifts a hand to his face, and surely enough it comes back stained maroon. His tears quite literally cut across his flesh. The broken cement digs into his back, and spots dance in his eyes from the intensity of the pain of everything adding up.

Blood loss begins to set in, Shirou becoming progressively less attentive in this hell of his own mind’s creation. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe defeating Alan and Michiru living and Shirou, for once, sparing someone’s life rather than ending it in a fit of rage, was just wistful thinking. Just an alternative to the true hell that Shirou’s created for himself.

He doesn’t have the time to regain his bearings before Nazuna emerges in his field of vision again, eyes still glowing pure pink and fangs bared in his direction. There’s something terrifying about this version of Nazuna, and maybe it’s the fact that it so closely resembles the Nazuna that Michiru is so fond of. Who she loves. Maybe Shirou doesn’t hate Nazuna, but he can’t imagine why Nazuna wouldn’t hate him.

She looms over him, staring at him blankly but clutching her fists so tightly he can’t imagine that she isn’t drawing some of her own blood in the process.

“You would do this to yourself if you could,” she says, lacking any emotion before she lunges forwards and wraps her hands around his throat.

For a moment, there’s choking and blood and his own agony consuming him whole yet again. Then there’s nothing.

* * *

Shirou awakes with a jolt, hot tears burning his cheeks. His hands fly to his throat only to encounter Pingua’s scarf wrapped tediously and carefully around his neck.

 _Pingua_.

Suddenly the warmth surrounding him makes sense. His arm is draped around his torso, and Shirou realizes that somehow Pingua is still holding him. Despite the thrashing in his sleep that Shirou is well aware of, despite having no obligation to stay with him.

He feels him stir, and he tries to stifle his sobs but it’s no use. His chest is aflame in agony, and his throat burns with resentment towards himself.

“Hey, what’s up?” Pingua asks. It’s a simple question, but it’s too much for Shirou. The way his voice is still soft from sleep, the way it’s gentle and caring and directed at Shirou. It breaks whatever resolve Shirou has remaining.

Shirou lets himself cry, tears steamingly silently down his cheeks, lying on the floor in city hall in Pingua’s arms. He doesn’t say anything, and Pingua doesn’t force him to. He just wraps Shirou into a tighter embrace and resumes stroking his hair.

Shirou knows he doesn’t deserve the care he’s receiving; comfort from a nightmare caused by his own lack of control.

But he doesn’t tell him to stop.

After an eternity of silence, Pingua speaks up.

“I get nightmares too.”

It’s nothing more than a gentle mutter, barely audible. Shirou’s out of it from the nightmare and his lack of sleep and the trauma gained from the day, but this fractures something inside him ever so slightly.

He thinks he understands why Pingua holds him as though he’s fragile; as though he’ll shatter if not handled properly. Because he knows.

“I’m sorry,” Shirou answers without thinking. His voice is more hoarse from the strain of crying than he anticipates.

Pingua doesn’t say anything in response. Instead he brushes Shirou’s hair off of his forehead and gently presses his lips to his skin.

Shirou doesn’t stiffen at the touch, and instead doesn’t want it to end. He doesn’t want to face another nightmare without Pingua’s comfort, without Pingua’s gentle and thoughtful and careful touch, without Pingua’s scent wreathing around him to block out everything else. Not that he’d ever admit to it.

Shirou lies there, slowly remembering that tears don’t draw blood and touch isn’t lethal. It takes longer than it should for this to register as the right way around. It seems like he’d deserve it more than the gentler reality.

“I don’t deserve this,” he speaks his thoughts aloud, “Being taken care of.”

Instead of arguing with him like everyone else, Pingua slowly asks, “Why not?”

“I just hurt people. I can’t protect anyone from _myself_ ,” Shirou continues, beginning to curl into a ball against Pingua’s chest.

“You saved the entire city tonight, Shirou,” Pingua answers, trying to give facts rather than emotion to comfort him.

“And I almost killed Michiru,” he throws back, chest tightening at the thought of his nightmare.

“Is that what you dreamt about?”

Yet again, Pingua has read Shirou too well. He doesn’t answer, but his eyes begin to burn yet again with tears.

“You’ve protected beastmen for centuries, is that not enough?” Pingua continues, arms still around Shirou.

“I’ve caused just as much harm as good,” he answers, blood running cold at the thought of everyone he’s killed, “I will never be enough.”

Pingua doesn’t try to reason with him further. He just holds Shirou a little tighter, a little closer. Because, somehow, he knows that’s the most he can do for Shirou right now.

And Shirou allows it, because he knows his loneliness and guilt will eat him alive if he doesn’t.


	2. your embrace, healing my wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pingua calls Shirou out in several different ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter ended up a lot longer than I expected <3

Shirou’s eyes flutter open to a haze of sunlight filtering into the hallway, and it takes him a second to remember where he is. The first shock to his system is the fact that he didn’t have another bout of nightmares, and the second is that his head leans against Pingua’s shoulder.

His breathing becomes a little labored from the panic setting in thanks to the realization that someone is still with him; still able to witness him vulnerable from sleep.

Pingua seems to notice this, and Shirou registers that his arm is still draped over his shoulder and his hand is still tangled in his hair.

“Get any more sleep?” he asks so casually that it makes Shirou  _ ache _ . He hates it, but how nonchalantly Pingua offers even the minimum of concern… he can’t take it.

“A little.”

“Any more nightmares?” he presses further, but at least this time Shirou doesn’t have to lie for the sake of hiding how deep his trauma runs.

_ This time _ .

It’s a strange thought. That dozing off under Pingua’s watch could happen again. A desirable thought, as much as Shirou hates to admit to it.

“Not this time,” he manages to stumble out, his words uncomfortably mirroring his thoughts.

“That’s good…” Pingua trails off, absentmindedly stroking Shirou’s hair. In the dead of night after one of the arguably, in a very long list, worst nights of his life, this may have been acceptable. But in daylight Shirou feels exposed. Vulnerable. And yet he would sooner die for the millionth time than tell Pingua to stop, his touch acting as a cure to Shirou’s stressed existence.

The moment of peace is interrupted by the echo of footsteps down the hallway, and the joyful voices of Michiru and Nazuna.

“I can’t believe you bought  _ three  _ energy drinks, Michiru!” Nazuna taunts, holding a bag full of snacks from the gas station across the street.

_ Nazuna _ .

After last night’s nightmare, Shirou can’t help it. As nonchalantly as he can, he buries his face into Pingua’s shoulder. He says nothing in return, but ceases stroking Shirou’s hair and moves to rubbing his arm. It nearly drives Shirou insane. How reassuring Pingua is. How he can’t help but trust him after he helped defeat Alan. After he remained with Shirou the entirety of the night. After everything, he’s still allowing Shirou to fall into his embrace.

“Ugh, Nazuna you  _ know  _ that I’m nearly immune to caffeine at this point!” Michiru complains jokingly, only to fall quiet at the sight of Shirou and Pingua.

“Oh,” she stumbles out before saying with more certainty, “Oh!”

“Hi,” Shirou mutters, voice muffled by the fabric of Pingua’s jacket. He’d very much like to disappear at the moment, to change day back to night. To return to being held under the safety of darkness.

“So,” Nazuna starts, and Shirou tries to stop himself from melting further into Pingua’s side, “We got some muffins, a few Redbulls, and coffee.”

Shirou manages to rouse himself at the mention of coffee, hesitantly removing himself from Pingua’s touch and scooting forward to where Nazuna and Michiru have placed breakfast.

He grabs the largest container of coffee, holding it in his hands and feeling its warmth through his palms. He allows his eyes to shut again, shoulders slouched and stiff as he leans over the cup. He’s still tired, but… less than usual.

And he knows that it’s only because of Pingua’s company. Without his reassuring presence and gentle touch Shirou’s certain that he wouldn’t have slept for so much as a second; wouldn’t have recovered from that nightmare.

When Shirou finally forces his tired eyes open, Pingua is right beside him once more. Shirou takes a sip of his coffee and tries to ignore the small tug in his gut at the sight of Pingua. The kindness and care he showed Shirou last night and even this morning… that’s not something to be quickly forgotten. To move on from.

The hall is covered in a comfortable silence, Nazuna and Michiru picking at a muffin, Pingua sipping on a Redbull. Shirou decides to break it.

“So, who paid for this?” he asks, taking another swig of his coffee. The question’s been nagging at him, because he knows that Michiru never carries cash on her and Nazuna is still in her tattered concert dress.

“Mr. Pingua,” Michiru smiles, breaking off another piece of her and Nazuna’s muffin, “He paid because he didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Oh.”

So Michiru and Nazuna saw him unconscious in Pingua’s arms. The thought makes Shirou feel much more exposed than it probably should.

Shirou waits for Michiru to elaborate, but she doesn’t. It’s a relief, because if there’s one thing Shirou knows it’s that Michiru can’t keep a secret. From him, at least.

Silence settles over the group again, interrupted only by Michiru and Nazuna’s occasional giggling, Nazuna leaning closer to Michiru the more she talks. Shirou slouches over his coffee again, occasionally taking another sip and trying to ignore the numb pain radiating through his body.

It’s not even the physical toll that last night took on him; it’s just the constant ache of his back and joints that’s faded to the back of his mind over the centuries. Attempting to ignore the soreness of his shoulders, Shirou finishes off the rest of his coffee before fighting the urge to curl up on the floor in submission to the dull torment of his pain acting up.

Instead, a hand gently covers one of his and for once Shirou doesn’t pull away. He slowly raises his gaze to meet Pingua’s, who nods to the elevator down the hall.

Shirou glances at Michiru and Nazuna, who are currently in deep conversation about something that prompts Nazuna to pull out a pair of earbuds, and decides this is as good a time as ever to talk to Pingua.

He rises to his feet, spots dancing in his eyes from not having eaten anything in roughly 24 hours. Shirou bites his lip and tries not to fall over only to have Pingua take his hand and gently place the other on the small of Shirou’s back.

“That,” he starts in a quiet tone so Nazuna and Michiru don’t hear, “ _ cannot _ be healthy.”

“Thanks for the concern, but I’m fine,” Shirou returns in an equally hushed voice, despite the fact that he’s now aware of the fact he’s shaking from the lack of food and sleep combined with too much caffeine.

“Wonderful, but I don’t believe you,” Pingua returns, escorting Shirou to the elevator before he has the chance to argue.

It’s… strange to have someone call bullshit on him for lying about his own well being. Shirou’s used to telling himself he’s fine, that even if he isn’t it doesn’t matter. But to have someone tell him that he’s wrong, that he’s visibly unwell enough for that to be argued? It’s… different.

They reach the doors and Pingua smacks the up button before returning to holding Shirou’s hand. Another situation Shirou is less than familiar with. Under any other circumstances, with any other person, Shirou would hate it. But with Pingua, who has just spent the entire night comforting him over nightmares and holding him close to fend off the cold… as much as he hates to admit, he’s kind of fond of it. The sensation of gentle touch, their fingers laced together with care from Pingua slowly and deliberately doing so. Still, physical contact just… doesn’t feel quite right to Shirou. Thoughts of all the time his hands have been stained red just further his conclusion of not being meant to be touched; to be taken care of.

The door dings, and Shirou stumbles inside with Pingua’s assistance. The second the doors slide shut again, Shirou lets his back hit the wall and slide down to the floor.

“Oh, let me guess. You’re still ‘fine’ are you?” Pingua scoffs, before sitting down directly beside him and digging around in his backpack for something.

Shirou just groans in response before something falls into his lap. A muffin from their “breakfast.”

“Eat that,” Pingua says without looking up from his backpack, apparently still digging for something.

“Why?” Shirou asks, despite feeling like an idiot.

“I don’t know, because you almost passed out from standing up five seconds ago and I’m near certain you haven’t eaten anything in over 24 hours?” Pingua sighs, finally producing a container of ibuprofen and a water bottle.

Begrudgingly, Shirou opens the muffin and breaks off a chunk. It’s chocolate chip.

“And when you’re done swallowing that, take some pain medication, will you?”

This catches Shirou even further off guard.

“I’m sure you have some at home, but you’re extremely stiff as of now and-” Pingua cuts himself off before asking, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Shirou struggles to string together a coherent sentence, choking out, “I… uh… I’m not used to being fretted over.”

“I don’t know how, you can barely take care of yourself despite the fact that you tirelessly work for the benefit of others,” Pingua retorts without skipping a beat, holding Shirou’s gaze evenly.

With a pleasant  _ ding  _ the elevator opens to the roof, Pingua rising to his feet before offering his hand to help Shirou to his feet.

Shirou hesitates for a second, not being used to a hand being offered in his direction that isn’t to harm him, before accepting it. Pingua effortlessly pulls him to his feet, remarking, “What are you? 6’6”? And you weigh next to nothing?”

“Yeah, well, I…” Shirou tries to defend his lack of care for himself. To string together the words that best describe how taking care of himself isn’t even near the top of his list of priorities; how he just… forgets to eat, falling asleep at his desk at three in the morning rather than going to dinner and then to bed.

“Just finish that muffin, will you?” Pingua asks, Shirou catching a glimpse of concern in the albatross’s eyes.

“Why do you care so much?” Shirou asks, stiffening at the wind the rooftop exposes him to. He just doesn’t get it. Why does Pingua care at  _ all _ ? All he knows Shirou from is tackling him out of the sky and acting as Michiru’s father figure.

“I don’t know, you seem like a decent person? You take care of that teenager like she’s legally your kid? You get nightmares about god knows what and refuse to allow anyone to know, nonetheless take care of you? You saved the city and are selfless and let me go for no explainable reason?” Pingua groans, tenderly placing his hands on Shirou’s shoulders. For once, the touch doesn’t bother him.

Shirou sighs before avoiding Pingua’s gaze and muttering, “You… don’t know who I am. Really.”

“Supposedly the beastmen’s god. It doesn’t matter, though. Every five minutes you throw yourself into another situation where you know it’s just going to end in you getting injured in place of others,” Pingua says, dissecting Shirou a little too well yet again.

“I’m not a good person,” Shirou says forcefully, wanting to walk away from yet another situation that strips him bare. Being known is horrifying and he’d very much like to avoid it, but Pingua seems to have already figured him out, even catching onto his lack of care for himself and his chronic pain. So he remains where he is, feeling extremely exposed for someone in five layers of clothing and a scarf.

_ I really am tied to him, aren’t I?  _ Shirou sighs internally, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he’s let another person into his personal life.

As if reading his thoughts, Pingua adjusts his scarf on Shirou, leaning close enough that Shirou can feel his breath ghosting his lips.

“You really should stop telling yourself that,” Pingua tells him with a surprising amount of gentleness.

Shirou doesn’t answer. Changing his mindset after so many centuries is unthinkable. Even then, he is unforgivable.

“May I?” Pingua vaguely gestures at Shirou, interrupting him from his thoughts.

Shirou nods halfheartedly, only to feel Pingua’s arms pull him into a tender hug. Shirou is already stiff from the cold of the wind and the shakiness from his coffee, and melts into Pingua’s embrace.

Hesitantly, he returns the hug, looping his arms around Pingua’s neck like he did in the middle of the night.

“Sure is different from our last encounter here,” Pingua jokes, and Shirou manages to crack a laugh.

“I much prefer this to being thrown off the roof,” Shirou smirks at his own joke, burying his face in the crook of Pingua’s neck.

“Oh, so you  _ do  _ have some self preservation in you?” Pingua remarks, and Shirou just groans in response.

They simultaneously release each other, Pingua still looking intently at Shirou. A glimmer of worry remains in his gaze before he comments, “Do you like having your hair in your face or something?”

Shirou doesn’t have time to respond before Pingua gently brushes aside the hair that falls across Shirou’s forehead and tenderly presses his lips against his skin.

Shirou feels himself grow warm in response to the slow and deliberate kiss to his forehead; to how identical it is to the one Pingua gave him in the middle of the night.

“So is this going to be a regular occurrence or-” Shirou asks, trying to come off as cool but miserably failing, only to be cut off by Pingua.

“Only if you want it to be,” he jokes, a smirk spreading across his lips as he pulls away.

Shirou tries to think of a good response that doesn’t expose the fact that he very much would like to see Pingua on a regular basis, but his mind draws a blank.

“Anyway, do me a favor and take care of yourself, will you?” Pingua asks, that worried look returning to his eyes.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Shirou answers gruffly, avoiding Pingua’s gaze yet again.

“At least finish off that muffin will you?” he presses, leaning in to the point where Shirou can make out a few freckles on his cheeks.

“Fine,” Shirou begrudgingly agrees, only to have Pingua quickly give him a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Great, see you at your place at eight!” Pingua smugly answers, lowering his goggles and securing his backpack.

“What?” Shirou asks, dumbfounded with his fingers tracing his cheek where Pingua just kissed him.

_ Of course he knows where I live, he fell through the ceiling. _

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Pingua smirks, and with a flash of feathers he’s gone.

* * *

Pingua must’ve slipped his bottle of ibuprofen into Shirou’s pocket back in the elevator, because when he reaches for his house key it’s there. Surprisingly, neither Michiru nor Nazuna, who’s going to move in with Michiru in her roof apartment anyway, asks about Shirou and Pingua. They seem to be dealing with something of their own, glancing at each other out of the corner of their eyes, jumping at the slightest contact with each other…

Shirou’s relatively certain he knows what’s going on, or what  _ has  _ been going on, between them. But he has his own matters to deal with, and just hopes that Nazuna doesn’t hurt Michiru, even unintentionally, again.

Michiru informs Shirou that she’s going to visit Nazuna’s old place across the street and help her start to move immediately, to which Shirou reluctantly agrees to.

Which, with Melissa and Gem still dealing with damage control, leaves Shirou alone for the first time since the hallway after putting an end to the hell of Alan’s creation.

He grabs a bottle of water and quickly walks to his room, shutting the door behind him and shakily sitting down on his couch.

He opens the water and takes three ibuprofen before grabbing a blanket out of his closet and wrapping it around his shoulders for comfort. Letting out a sigh, he sits beneath his desk, back against one side and feet propped up on the other.

Shirou remains like that for a while, the sun slowly setting being his only means of telling time and even then he barely notices it from the haze of his thoughts, none of which are comprehensible. Hazy memories of blood on his hands, of his own blood being spilt… nothing more than a vague feeling of unease eating away at him until he’s numb.

He doesn’t move, apart from slowly curling into a ball with his arms hugging his knees tightly to his chest. That is, until a sudden gush of blood alerts him to the fact that he’s been absentmindedly picking at a particularly deep gash for as long as he’s allowed his mind to torment him.

Shakily rising to his feet, he tries not to let the heavy flow of crimson drip onto his jacket and stumbles to the bathroom. He turns on the water, feeling the warmth numb the pain Shirou had barely noticed to begin with and detachedly watching the scarlet circle down the drain. He wishes his hands would stop shaking so badly, because wrapping gauze, despite much more practice than the typical user, is something he’s never been great at.

Dazedly, he walks to the empty kitchen to put on tea for no reason other than in halfhearted hope that it will calm his nerves.

Shirou feels more like a ghost in the lives of others now than ever. Gem and Melissa are still out, Michiru and Nazuna are working on moving in together on the roof, and Shirou… Shirou just paces around the house like a caged animal. Unconsciously making himself bleed being the only thing drawing himself out of the stupor he’s fallen into when left alone with his thoughts after several near death experiences and almost killing someone who he considers family within the past 24 hours.

Shirou sinks to the floor, realizing that it’s dark out already. That he’s done nothing but stew in his own self-hatred for literal hours.

The sharp whistle of the tea kettle draws him out of another spiral, and he forces himself to rise to his feet. He grabs a tacky mug that Michiru bought with money she “earned” from working with Marie, and manages to crack a small melancholic smile.

It has nothing but the lunar cycle painted on it; a joke on him being a “werewolf.” Ignoring how his eyes have begun to burn with tears, he places a stress relief tea bag in the mug and walks through the unlit home to his room

He sets his mug on his desk, lifting his gaze to the door to the balcony only to see none other than Pingua looking back at him through the glass. Hurriedly, Shirou rubs his eyes with his arm to wipe away any potential remaining tears and opens the door.

Pingua’s uncharacteristically quiet, and Shirou realizes how disheveled he must appear; eyes likely still puffy from tears, freshly bandaged with blood visible through the gauze, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal his flesh marred with scars.

Pingua opens his arms, and Shirou’s mind is addled to the point where he doesn’t hesitate to fall into them.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, pulling away far enough that he can look Shirou in the eye.

“Nothing,” Shirou answers before shaky limbs fail him, promptly collapsing in Pingua’s arms.

Luckily, Pingua catches him easily, bridal carrying him over to the couch before fetching his tea.

“I’m going to ask you again,” he starts firmly, with his eyes overflowing with concern and his voice softening, “What’s wrong?”

Despite his better judgement, Shirou answers honestly.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, taking a drink of his tea despite the fact that it’s still boiling hot, “My mind is just…”

“Foggy?” Pingua finishes, having correctly worded the sentence Shirou couldn’t even finish.

Shirou nods before continuing, “Everything is just… too much. After last night, old memories…”

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Last night blurs with a night a thousand years ago that Shirou will never be able to forget, or even allow to comfortably settle to the back of his mind.

“I understand,” Pingua answers without elaboration. As if he even needs to. While he doesn’t show it, or at least masks it with his more… charismatic demeanor, Pingua is just as battered as Shirou and Shirou knows it.

Shirou sinks a little further into his corner of the couch before Pingua inquires further, “What did you do to your arm?”

It’s not accusatory, but Shirou wants to run from the question. And yet…

“Got… distracted and didn’t realize I’d picked at a gash until it started bleeding again,” he fumbles out, omitting the  _ a lot _ descriptor regarding the bleeding.

Pingua’s eyes widen for a second in concern before he quietly asks, “Could I change the bandage? It’s bled through already and… clumsily applied.”

“‘Clumsily applied’?” Shirou questions with a quirk of his eyebrow before hesitantly sighing, “Yeah.”

He awkwardly rises to his feet, Pingua once again at his side, helping him walk to the bathroom where the gauze is stored.

Shirou sits on the floor while Pingua digs through the mess of a medicine cabinet, which, come to think of it, is probably stained with Shirou’s blood because nobody else uses this bathroom and he certainly hasn’t bothered to touch it when he wasn’t bleeding. He doesn’t know how he feels about, well, any of this. But soon enough Pingua has rubbing alcohol, gauze, and cotton balls on hand.

“I’m going to disinfect it first, ok?” he says, voice laced with unexpected care.

“Ok,” Shirou answers, meeting his gaze and tugging up his sleeve a little further, surprised that he didn’t pull it down the second he saw Pingua.

Pingua tenderly unravels the old bandages to reveal a lengthy scabbed over gash on Shirou’s forearm, tossing the bloodied gauze into the nearest wastebasket before pouring some rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball.

“I don’t think I need to tell you this is probably going to sting,” Pingua jokes, allowing a small smile to cross his lips.

“No, you don’t,” Shirou confirms, feeling a smirk tug at the corner of his lips.

And it does sting. Despite the gentle dabbing, Shirou still has to physically restrain himself from grimacing in pain.

When Pingua’s finally done disinfecting the cut, the cotton ball is fully stained a deep crimson in blood.

And the large scars crisscrossing his skin are fully visible. Sure, he had both of his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but with Pingua close enough to fully take in the severity of them, nonetheless be touching his skin… Shirou feels unjustifiably exposed. Especially considering that Pingua has now witnessed him break down several times.

Pingua must sense his unease, because he removes his hands and, after a second of visible hesitation, pulls down the collar of his dark turtleneck to reveal a patch of silver scar tissue on his shoulder; unmistakably a healed bullet wound.

He tugs one of his sleeves up, revealing a collage of bruises and fresh cuts and old scars. And Shirou feels his chest tighten in empathy.

“It’s ok,” he says evenly, a melancholic smile on his lips, “You’re not alone.”

For the first time, Shirou lets himself register that he’s grown rather attached to the albatross. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he genuinely cares about him.

And for the first time, Shirou initiates physical contact. He tenderly cups the sides of Pingua’s face, warm against Shirou’s naturally freezing hands, and slowly brings their foreheads together until they touch and the air they breathe is shared.

“Thank you,” he manages to articulate, “for everything.”

“It’s… not a problem,” Pingua stumbles out, placing his hand against Shirou’s cheek and running his thumb along his cheekbone, “It’s just nice to have somewhere to go… someone to understand.”

“After being alone for so long?” Shirou guesses, paraphrasing his own thoughts.

Pingua brushes back the hair that falls on Shirou’s forehead, and sure enough he places a gentle kiss to Shirou’s forehead before pulling back and looking him in the eye with a lopsided smile, “Exactly.”

“Now, you might want me to finish dressing that gash,” Pingua awkwardly comments, grabbing the roll of gauze.

“As much as I hate to admit to it, you’re right,” Shirou sighs teasingly.

This time it’s Pingua who groans in response to their antics.

Shirou offers his forearm to Pingua, who wraps it with astounding dexterity, single-handedly securing the gauze with medical tape. Finally, he gently places his lips to the bandages before slowly raising his gaze to meet Shirou’s.

“Better?” he asks, and Shirou just answers with a barely audible, “Yeah.”

Pingua gently traces the scars on Shirou’s arm with his fingertips, and Shirou lets him. It’s much better being touched with care than being dissected by his own thoughts.

“Do you remember how you got them?” he asks quietly, and Shirou visibly stiffens.

“Yes, I do,” he answers slowly and carefully, not elaborating that his scars are the only permanent reminders of his life. That even when he forgets for a moment what one of them originates from he’s doomed to spend the night trapped in a hellish nightmare recounting the incident in exact detail. That his scars are the only thing he’s cursed to remember.

It’s silent until Pingua speaks up again with, “Have you eaten anything tonight?”

Shirou can’t help but feel guilty thanks to the fact that he hasn’t had anything other than that muffin all day, and keeps silent as an answer.

“Well,” Pingua starts, rising to his feet, “that would explain the whole ‘near fainting’ incident. Let’s change that.”

Pingua offers his hand to help Shirou to his feet again, and this time he takes it without hesitation.

Shirou halfheartedly leads the way to the kitchen, where the light is on and Michiru, Nazuna, Gem, and Melissa sit at the table, all staring at the two of them.

“Shit!” Shirou whispers, sliding behind Pingua and bringing his sleeves down to cover his scars from the rest of the household’s eyes.

“You- uhm- have any food left over for the two of us?” Pingua asks, breaking the silence. Something about him referring to him and Shirou as “us” makes Shirou’s face grow hot in embarrassment, and he’s relieved when Melissa speaks up.

“Of course, we always make enough for visitors!” she answers cheerfully before awkwardly adding, “Though I must say I didn’t expect to see you around here again, nonetheless with Shirou.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Pingua laughs, pulling out a seat and pointedly looking at Shirou to follow his example.

With a sigh, Shirou sits down and begins to uneasily eat some soup.

It’s warm and good and Shirou  _ is  _ hungry but… it takes an effort for him to down. Nonetheless, he manages to finish it, luckily without any further conversation from the table thanks to Nazuna and Michiru loudly discussing how they now share a room.

The only comment that is directed at him is Melissa politely commenting on his scarf, to which he awkwardly mutters a thank you.

When Pingua thanks Melissa for dinner goes to put his dishes in the sink Shirou follows him, having to discuss-

“So, Mr. Pingua,” Michiru begins, “Are you staying over?”

“For a while, I suppose,” he remarks before quickly adding, “If it’s ok, that is.”

“Of course,” Gem answers, “But where will you sleep?”

“With Shirou,” he says, clearly without thinking as the dining room falls silent for a solid thirty seconds.

“Well, alright!” Melissa tosses in to break the silence, and Michiru gives Shirou a knowing look. He scowls back at her before starting to walk to his study, footsteps falling quietly throughout the empty halls.

He finds Pingua sitting on his couch with a single lamp on, staring at the wall apparently in deep enough thought.

“So you’re staying?” Shirou asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“Of course,” Pingua returns matter-of-factly, turning to meet Shirou’s gaze.

“Why?” Shirou continues, genuinely confused. There’s no logical conclusion that Shirou can come to regarding Pingua’s behavior.

“Why do you think?” Pingua halfway laughs before walking over to Shirou, who can’t even put together a sentence at the moment.

“You. I don’t know how to break this to you, Shirou, but I’m staying for  _ you _ .”

Shirou must look even more shocked than he feels, because Pingua even adds, “There’s not many people who… get it. If you know what I mean. Us fucked up people have to stick together, you know.”

“ _ God _ ,” is all Shirou can manage before Pingua pulls him into his embrace.

Shirou wraps his arms around Pingua in return with limited hesitation, and they stay like that for a solid minute before Shirou mentions the fact that maybe they shouldn’t be doing this in the middle of the doorframe.

Shirou carefully shuts the door before grabbing a few blankets from his closet and then returning to his small couch, where Pingua already lies. His hat is placed carefully on the floor nearby, leaving his hair even messier than usual.

“It’s ok, I’ll sleep on the flo-” Shirou begins, only to immediately be cut off by Pingua.

“Please, it’s your room. And you weigh, like, next to nothing,” he says exhaustedly, arm draped over his eyes.

Shirou sighs before hanging his trench coat over the back of his desk chair, taking off his gloves, turning off the lamp in the corner of the room, and draping a blanket over his shoulders. Finally, he walks back over to the couch. An invisible barrier of all the times Shirou has caused harm, failed to protect people, or simply proven himself to never be good enough for anyone causes him to pause.

The only thing that jolts him out of his dissociation is Pingua’s hand steadily entwining with his, his thumb running over a particularly large scar on the back of Shirou’s hand. He tiredly mutters, “It’s ok.”

And little by little, Shirou permits himself to lie on top of Pingua, placing his head on his chest and draping his blanket, a gift from Melissa, over the both of them.

“See, this is fine,” Pingua reassures Shirou, running his fingers rhythmically through Shirou’s hair and placing his hand in the small of Shirou’s back.

“Mhmmm,” Shirou hums in response, hyper-aware of Pingua’s warmth and solidness and touch, because Shirou isn’t meant to be held or loved or even taken care of. Because he isn’t meant for any display of kindness and he desperately fears that someway, somehow, Pingua will be hurt because of him.

But, for now, Shirou lets his fatigue claim him, lets his drowsiness and the sense of safety in Pingua’s arms consume him whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated! Find me on tumblr @shirouogaymi


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